Solitude
by The Nth Degree
Summary: All the head psychiatrist of Arkham Asylum wants to do is rest after a particulairly stressful day at work, but the quiet voice that solitude brings out fights with him tooth and nail...it begins fighting him more and more...[fin]
1. Solitude

A/N: This is my first attempt at a fic other than Star Trek, so be kind :) It's an oneshot (well, until there's a time where I feel I want to put up some more. I leave it open) about Crane (he's head of Arkham like the movie). I know it may seem a bit OOC but the thing about Begins is that you don't see what it's like for him to struggle against Scarecrow. I suppose you could call this pre-Batman Begins, too.

Many hugs go to my friend Marc who beta-read this for me and convinced me that it wasn't absolute crap and that I should put it up. I disagree with him, cause I still think it's not the best I can do, but I won't complain anymore. I always judge my own work harder

All of the Batman Begins stuff and characters & plots and whatnot are the property of Warner Bros and I'm not making a dime off of this. I'm not a professional writer and so I know that this has gotta be borderline crappy :)

And on a note about Cillian Murphy…you owe it to yourself (fangirl…or not ;D) to see Red Eye. I've already been to see it twice (I know, more money than brains.) but it's so awesome. Just...see it. Hehe!

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** Solitude**

Dr Jonathan Crane wiped his hand back and forth along his forehead, trying to release the pressure that was spiralling through his head as he walked the floor of his apartment building, dragging his feet against the rough carpet.

Just another day in Gotham.

He finally reached the door of his apartment and dug in his coat pocket briefly to find his keys. He looked down to aid his search and his already loose square-rimmed glasses slid off his nose and fell to the floor without a noise. He began muttering as he hastily pulled his keying out of his pocket and bent down slowly to pick his glasses back up. He grasped them in one hand, not bothering to put them on. As he stood up, his black hair swept into his face, obscuring the vision of his normally bright blue eyes, which were subdued today.

Taking care of his glasses, he carefully swept his hair back to its normal position with his skinny arm, and with the other, placed his apartment key in the lock. He opened the door and was met with an inky blackness. Without even bothering to turn the lights on, he dropped the set of keys on the table, which he knew was right by the door, and put his glasses back on his face.

He sighed. Work was hell. Patient S in Block 34c had tried to make a noose of her bedding after she had found a crack in the ceiling. He was _always_ telling the guards to watch out for suicidal patients. But they never truly took heed of his advice, although it was the best thing they could do.

_They need to fear…need to know true fear …then they will heed_.

Crane groaned as he flipped on the light switch. Immediately the light flooded the main living room, leaving him looking at his apartment. It was reasonably well kept, the off-white seating providing good contrast to the dark oak wooden bookshelves that were full of books about Psychology. He briefly noted the open textbook about chemicals on the coffee table, but diverted his gaze from it intentionally.

The fear toxin could wait for another night.

_You fool; it is not perfected yet!_

Another groan was emitted from his barely open lips.

Solitude brought _him_ out.

Yesterday he had worked for hours on a new composition for his fear toxin. It was to help people – to make psychologists understand what the brain does while fearing, but _he_ just wanted people to fear. It drove him. Excited him.

Jonathan found the prospect of it exciting, but not in the ruthless way that _he_ did. He pushed the door closed with his left hand and finally began to move, his limbs feeling heavy as he trudged on through his home. He knew that throughout the night, _he_ would be speaking to him. Telling him to finish the toxin. Whispering in his mind that there were things to be done.

But he didn't want to. He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly, trying to rid the tired film that had seemingly grown on top of his cornea.

There was another patient at work – Patient X in block 31-alpha. He had bit the tip of the nose off of a generally well-liked orderly. He couldn't understand it – it was so irrational for Patient X. He usually sat in the corner talking about weather. Before his nervous breakdown, he was a local meteorologist for GNN. One more case file on his desk; one more hour of extra time at the office.

_You could test it on X…make him fear so much that he would never do a thing like that again!_

"No!" Crane cried out loud, curling his fists.

_It may be the only way…let me get at him!_

The Doctor sighed, pushing more hair out of his face, "When the Gamma solution is done, we should attempt it on him." He finally admitted, letting his hands go slack. "It'll give us more insight into his mind. We may be able to treat him faster." He paused, realizing that he was talking out loud to a voice in his head. But he was too tired to care.

The hissing noise in the back of his mind stopped. He finally opened his eyes, blinking a couple times, then began to shuffle again. He bypassed the kitchen – it's not like he ate a lot anyways, some blamed his lankly look on his small appetite; a couple of cups of coffee could sustain him for most of the day.

Subconsciously, he loosened his black tie as he walked into his bedroom. It wasn't lit, but it still wasn't as pitch black as the living room had been. Windows gave the overcast day a glimpse of Dr Jonathan Crane's world. A simple and modest bedroom, a bed, a bedside table with a lamp and a clock, and a dresser with a mirror. He collapsed back first on his bed, not bothering to move his limbs from the sprawled position they landed in.

It was quiet. And the quiet brought _him_ out.

_Work on the Gamma solution now!_

The voice was dark and commanding, but Crane only sighed, "Too tired," he mumbled, shifting his head to the other side. His glasses had become ajar, but he didn't care. It was tiring, fighting to take control of his own body, being the head of the Asylum _and_ working on the toxin. He couldn't do it all at once. He blinked his "chips of ice" as many called them and then pulled himself up with more effort than it should have taken.

_OBEY!_

It was yelling now, trying to push all other rational thoughts out of his head. He only bit his teeth together and stood up, leaving his glasses on the bed. He walked over to his dresser and looked at himself. Lank, pale skin, and a gaunt figure. And yet, the voice in the back of mind, it almost always made him stronger than he was.

Almost.

He grasped the edge of the desk with one of his hands, and shakily, his other moved towards a small CD player. He didn't use it much, but there were times, in solitude, he loved nothing better. He depressed the power button, and the small machine whirred into action. The already loaded CD began to spin and it quietly began to play. The track indicator began flashing until it loaded, and then began ticking the seconds.

Everything was blurry without his glasses, which were still strewn on the bed, but he could still see outlines. So he carefully made it back to his bed and felt around for his frames. In a small sweep, his pinky came in contact with a lens. He scooped it up and put them back on his face. Everything became sharper around him.

Including the voice in his head. Hissing and spitting.

_I'm your voice of your inner thoughts! I make you powerful; I make you GOD! I need fear. I must taste it. Let their fears be known to us._

"We will," Jonathan lamely promised, laying himself gently on the bed. His left knee jutted into the air and he laid his right calf on it in some kind of crooked number four. "I just…need to rest." He added, closing his eyes peacefully.

One hand was on his stomach, moving with his shallow breathing, creasing his dark blue dress shirt with every movement. The other was in the air, subtly moving in time to the music – a classical piece.

_You'd rather listen to a blind composer as opposed to relishing the musical screams of the weak and pitiful?_

His fingers moved quicker and in more lavish patterns with the crescendo, although his wrist was staying quite immobile. He frowned, although he was quite enjoying the music. He had to ignore _him_. _He_ wouldn't be in control of Crane tonight. There would be other nights where he would gladly revel in the ideas that _he_ came up with. He would frighten all of the insane at Arkham. He would see their minds; find out why they fear so much.

_He_ was The Scarecrow to the flock of insanity purging Gotham.

He shivered. Scarecrow…everybody called him that when he was younger. Brainy and weak - he survived merely on the knowledge that he would surpass all other morons that talked about him behind his back. Words were knives to him, each one opening his wounds further until _he_ came crawling out.

_Their screams are music too. They form their own demented chords…ones that are much more satisfying. So why don't you listen to them instead of these which don't convey feeling? _

"Do not insult the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata," he quipped bitterly. The voice didn't respond. The corners of his lips curled up into a sly smile.

Tomorrow, tomorrow The Scarecrow would have what he wanted.

But tonight, he would be Dr Jonathan Crane – head psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum – catching up on some well-deserved rest in his solitude.

Music made _him_ retreat.


	2. Uncertainty

Chapter Summary: A new day, more tests, and a new barrage of sinister thoughts from the voice that solitude brings forth. But, as this drained psychiatrist is finding out, he's getting stronger and fighting him at each turn of events...

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**Author's Note:** I really need a life. I'm not as happy with this part as I was with Solitude. I dunno what it is...but I've kept editing it and editing it until I got this. More of what he's like, struggling against Scarecrow. I hope, if I add more to this, that you can see the progression of how hard it becomes.  
And thank you, Blodeuedd, your review was really helpful and generous. :-) I love the fact that someone's enjoying this. I just wanted to see if I could kinda create the side of Crane not shown in the movie. Ta :-)

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**Uncertainty**

His notes lay forgotten as he watched the patient cower in front of him. Her long brown hair's grooming was long since abandoned, her body frail and weak – but she was shaking and whimpering like a small child. She feebly reached out to swat something that only she could see while moving towards the corner. Her eyes were wide and filled with more life than she had ever shown during her time at Arkham. They were filled with one thing…one raw emotion.

_Fear_.

Jonathan sighed as he looked at the woman who was huddled in the fetal position. He leaned back in his chair, took his glasses off and absentmindedly rubbed them on his black sweater vest. His eyes, although giving blurred vision, never left her. She began to rock back and forth on the floor, only once raising her head to look into his deep blue eyes.

And she screamed.

He frowned as he put his glasses back on his nose and groped for his notepad and pen, which were on the small table beside him in the desolate cell. He gingerly found his pen, and from experience, picked it up before trying to move his notes. He slowly moved the notes from his hand to his knee, where he let them fall. The hand with the pen firmly tucked in the crevice of his thumb, travelling under the first two fingers until its point rested on his ring finger twitched.

_He _was laughing manically.

He blinked twice and then attempted focused on the pad of paper, the hastily written notes still perfectly legible. He added a new line marking the elapsed time and a symptom he hadn't seen prior to this test – the fetal position. But then again, Patient M was a little bit different than the others.

Sure, Arkham had mass murders, people who believed they were God or a Devil, but the only had one Patient M – she had asked her husband to do the dishes, to which he replied he would do them soon. So she stabbed him 10 times and then proceeded to do the dishes herself.

Crane raised the hand with the pen to his forehead and began to massage it, dragging his fingers across the abundant flesh and then pulling them back. The laughing was getting just a little bit annoying, rattling in the back of his mind.

_Let me out…and I'll be quiet._

The Doctor really didn't want to speak – he didn't want to respond; it would disrupt the rest of the test because it would add an unstable element into the critical situation. The caged animal was rattling on his bars. Jonathan gritted his teeth and didn't reply.

_Let me drink her fear…_

"No!" he hissed quietly, immediately bringing attention to him from the patient. He bit his lip, not truly knowing what to do – he did have a lot more information about the most recent alterations of the Beta solution, the only thing that M had reacted to was – him. Whenever they locked eyes, whenever he tried to move forward, whenever he tried to speak, she would scream and back off. It gave him a vague idea of her phobia…

_She fears us. Let her have reason to! She thinks of us as the man she killed – the one that right now, is coming back from the grave to get his revenge. Let him have it!_

He closed his eyes and he heard the cackling in his mind again. _He_ was relishing in the pain; in the fear that M was being caused. In a way, Jonathan always felt a bit concerned for his patients – but in return, he was learning things that would have otherwise forever gone on a mystery. But _he _had other plans.

"Hello, Nicole." The eyes snapped open and didn't blink. His voice was not normal: all traces of emotion gone, all the traces of the man that had walked into the door erased. His eyes were harder and more menacing.

She stopped in her shaking, "L-L-Leon?"

"I'm here." He answered, standing up, straightening his jacket, and taking a glimpse down at his cuffs, which he adjusted so it was more comfortable. He then walked towards her, his shoes tapping noisily against the smooth concrete of the ground.

She began to shake again, her hands still hugging her knees as she watched him come closer. In her mind, she was seeing the corpse of her late husband, but she was wrong. It wasn't even Dr Jonathan Crane…_he_ was something much more sinister.

"Do you know how much pain you caused me?" he hissed, finally stopping a couple feet from her dishevelled body, "How much torment? It's time for me to pay back the favour in spades. Show me your fears."

She opened her mouth to say something, but the powerful reverberation of his voice made her wince instead. A small smile came across his features as he took the pen out of his right hand and began to caress her tear-stained cheek with his index finger. She snivelled, looking in horror at him, backing up against the wall, trying to get back from the visage.

"SHOW ME YOUR FEARS!" he yelled, causing her to start screaming again. His touch was nothing but a dagger, drawing blood on her. He laughed at her screams until they were no more. And suddenly a trembling Dr Crane stood up from his crouched position looking thoroughly stunned, uncertain of what was going on.

"What the hell…?" he asked, looking around until his eyes rested on the unconscious patient, absentmindedly putting a hand out to catch his glasses as they slid off his nose from a mixture of the tilt of his head and the light film of sweat that had beaded across his face. "What…"

A few seconds swiftly passed and he managed to put both his glasses back on his face and two and two together. His eyes widened, and then an irate reaction seized him and his eyes narrowed.

"I thought I told you no!" he said harshly to the voice residing in his head. His own voice was back to normal. _He_ didn't respond. The lack of _his_ voice left an empty buzzing in his head. "I thought I told you that you couldn't do _that_ when I was doing work!"

Fuming at the lack of an answer, he carefully picked Patient M – Nicole Guadeé – up and placed her back on her bed. He shifted his eyes, and slowly, walked over to his briefcase standing up by the chair. Kneeling down once more, he silently undid the clasps and rummaged inside it to find what he was looking for – it was a syringe. He undid the cap and flicked the side of the instrument with his middle finger to get the air bubbles out.

He quickly walked over to her and found the right vein he needed to put the antidote into her system. He depressed the plunger for the clear liquid until there was nothing more left.

Satisfied, he peered out of his glasses to look at Patient M with his almost concerned blue eyes, who was set into unconsciousness by _him_. It wasn't just his patients who had to contend with the monster of his mind. He himself had been in mental fights with _him_ so exhausting and strenuous that he had drifted into a mixture of sleep and/or unconsciousness.

"Don't worry," he murmured uncharacteristically, "You're not the only one."

_When's her next appointment? I didn't get to fully unleash her fears!_

Gathering his notebook and other supplies, he scowled, "Do that again, and I swear…" he trailed off, feeling a lot more tired than before the session. Another battle with _him_, just like the night before. He adjusted one of the lenses of his glasses with one hand as he quietly left the cell, giving the heavy metal door enough leverage to swing closed by itself with a heavy bang.

Only this time, there was nothing to make _him_ go away.

He sighed as he walked the corridor, swinging his briefcase slightly by his side. He shared looks and nods of affirmation when someone said his name in greeting – and to everyone else, he was the normal Doctor who had risen quickly through the ranks of psychologists. But _he_ knew the truth.

He made a turn at the elevator and swiped his security access card, which beeped and opened the doors. Walking in, the doors shut behind him and he pressed the button for the second floor – where his office was located.

_More_.

"No."

_MORE!_

"I _did_ what you wanted!" he yelled, "I have other matters to attend to," Jonathan argued with _him_, once again taking his glasses off of his face to clean them. He was drained and he didn't feel like arguing. But it was still the middle of the day – he had at least five more hours of normal work until he could get out of there; back to his apartment and try to clear his mind.

_You think you can get rid of me so easily, don't you?_

"Yes I do," Jonathan replied matter-of-factly. "I do what you want and you leave me be." He continued, with a hint of a plead laced in his tone.

The golden doors of the Asylum's elevators opened and Jonathan stepped out into the bustle of the second floor – where all the doctor's private offices were. People were milling around – a vast difference to the basement high security cells. The noise soothed his jumpy nerves, which were all over the place since _he_ had decided to take over his body. _He _didn't like people and so _he_ was always more subdued…

_Soon you'll see things my way, and I won't have to forcefully take over you body – you're afraid of me right now. You shouldn't fear me. THEY should._

"Yes, I shouldn't fear you because you can essentially take control of me whenever you feel like it," he muttered sarcastically out of the corner of his mouth. He never liked answering the voice inside his head with his own thoughts – it seemed even stranger, carrying an entire conversation with no words.

His eyes skimmed the area, and immediately brightened as he saw someone he needed to, "Dr Masters!" Jonathan called, quickly walking over to the older man, who turned and gave a smile back.

"Dr Crane."

"I was wondering if I was going to have to hunt you down like the last time."

_He'd be excellent for the next test_…

Crane began to inwardly fume at the (rapidly fading) voice that he couldn't respond to in the middle of a conversation – lest his own peers think he should be locked up too.

"Ah, well you caught me before I had a chance to lead you on that hunt," he joked, bringing a hint of a time pressed smile to Jonathan's face, "What's up, Jonathan?"

"There are a couple of transfers from the state penitentiary. I think I found what could be constituted as blatant loopholes in the contract – I need you to look them over for me."

"Sure thing. I'll meet you in your office at around 3 then?"

Jonathan nodded a couple of times, "That'll be fine. I'll look forward to it, Mark."

With that he turned on his black heels and began to walk down the stark hallway, the traces of the smile evaporating from his face. He didn't _dislike_ Mark Masters, nor did he truly dislike anyone on the staff (that was _his_ job), but sometimes they focused too much on wasting time rather than working. His limbs got heavier and heavier as he crept his way to his stark white office – much to his chagrin.

He quietly walked into his room and shut the door, letting out a small exhale of weariness. The walls were off white and the bookcases were oak – his office was his second home and how appropriate, it looked like it. His briefcase was lifted and he put it on his desk, careful to mind the reports and other documents he still had to go through.

He fell heavily into his worn leather chair and let out another breath, closing his eyes for a couple moments to let the soothing blackness take a hold of him. The incident with _him_ shook his mind more than he wanted to admit.

He was doing what he was doing because he wanted to help people – the quicker the unknown fear could be conquered, the easier it would be to study and cure people like Patients S and X. And yet, _he_ just wanted to hear them suffering. To _him_, the ends didn't justify the means – the means justified themselves.

He sighed again as he opened his eyes to reality. His eyes, looking straight ahead, caught the only stimuli in the room – a painting of a grand piano, lavishly decorated, with a copy of – ironically enough – the first movement of Moonlight Sonata. Jonathan ran a hand through his nicely combed hair, causing it to become tangled and messy. But he didn't care. He dropped his gaze from the painting and then grabbed the edge of his desk with his (slightly shaking) hands and pulled the chair closer. He had work to do.

He grabbed the notes from his briefcase about the Beta solution – it was almost done, and the antidote had been perfected. He skimmed over them, but didn't take in what he had written. …_He_ seemed to, though.

_Glossy eyes, screams, uncontrollable shaking – then realization and then the fear. Glorious fear._

"Would you _please_ be silent and let me do my work?" Crane snapped, setting the paper down on the table, his eyes blazing. The constant hissing in his mind flared up again. Solitude. Of course.

_You can't tell me to let you finish your work! I am HELPING you with your work!_

"No, you're hindering me," he replied tiredly, putting his hands on his head. "The sooner I can get these notes and compare them to my other ones without any distractions from _you_…the sooner I can test them again."

There. He had said it. He didn't want to, but if it got _him_ off of his back, it would be worth it.

_Yesssss…_

_He_ hissed, almost appreciatively. Horrified at the amount of control that _he_ had gotten recently, Dr Crane grimaced, uncertainty filling him – how long would he be able to keep this monster confined? He looked up and shook his head so that most of his hair fell back into its normal place. _He_ was silent once again. Dr Crane let out a relieved breath and cleared his throat, diving into the papers like the workaholic he was. His mind never really focused on the paper. Jonathan kept repeating to himself over and over that he was not losing control and that _he_ – that The Scarecrow was still firmly under his will. Whether he believed it was a story for another time.

He was still himself – a psychologist who at times, seemed uncaring (in both professional and personal lives), but who only was like that because he didn't care for either failure or distractions.

_He_ was a psychopathic monster who revelled on the screams of the innocent; the weak, and _he_ was the one who caused the suffering. Not him.

_He _wouldn't bother him for a while. The weary Dr Crane had just made certain of that.


	3. Advocate

Chapter Summary: A problem errupts when the psychiatrist finds himself dealing with the fact that the voice took him over again while facing someone that he, himself truly dislikes and having to testify at a court hearing...

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**Advocate**

Jonathan walked the halls of Arkham confidently, his briefcase in one hand and some of his latest Gamma solution tests in the other, held up to his face, obscuring his vision. His blue eyes skimmed the document, mouth imitating specific sentences on the paper. It was the only way to keep _him_ out of his mind. The more he concentrated on the toxins ever since the little 'threat' that the Doctor had given _him_ couple days ago, the more _he_ would stay subdued.

He offered a brief glimpse past the paper and saw nothing in front of him, to which he breathed a sigh of relief. Nobody would see the notes on the other side, for the time being. It had complicated formulae and chemical reactions scribbled all over it. The last thing Jonathan needed was people inquiring.

It brought _him_ out.

He mumbled something incoherently and headed towards the elevator so he could go to his office and brood over the latest findings from his last session with Patient C-2 – the C-Twins, as everyone at Arkham often called them, yielded some interesting results for the Gamma solution's first steps, much to _his_ happiness.

Reaching the elevator, he pulled the paper from in front of his face and clutched it underneath his elbow as he pressed the 'up' button. Unlike the lower cells, there was no security clearance needed to get to the higher floors.

_The Twin clearly has many issues…many fears._

"Just. Stop." Crane irately muttered brokenly as the gold coloured doors opened and he stepped in. Pushing the 2nd floor button, he paused, realizing how menacing _he_ was getting recently. Frowning, he knelt down to set his briefcase on the elevator floor so he could adjust his glasses. Straightening up, he yawned. Every time he thought about getting sleep, _he_ somehow interfered, making it almost impossible.

_You don't enjoy relishing his screams…you don't enjoy the results it gives you…you are pathetic._

Crane couldn't help but feel his skin crawl at the voice now, it was defiantly more dangerous and uncontrollable, which made it just that much more annoying. He adjusted a cuff on his dress shirt, moving its position on his wrist, trying to ignore it. But he heard the screams. While _he_ drank them up, he had them embedded into his memory with all the other ones.

_He_ was taunting him. And to make matters worse, _he_ was laughing - the cold cackle echoing throughout his skull, making it that much harder to go through a day's work without encountering a headache.

The doors dinged as he reached the second floor. He unclenched his fist and wrapped it, if possible, even tighter around his briefcase handle as he hoisted it from the floor and began to walk down the crowded meeting area, just content on making it this far. He sighed as his pace began to quicken slightly, not wanting confrontations.

He let out a sigh of relief as he walked to the swathing silence of his office's hallway. Nobody ever gathered outside of people's offices. It would disturb everyone else. It was a win-lose situation, it brought him quiet, but it also brought _him_.

_Go back. See them again. It will aid with the Gamma solution._

"No." Jonathan firmly said, twisting the knob to his office, pushing his shoulder against the door to get it open.

_Go back to them!_

"No!" He exclaimed again, shutting the door and flipping on the lights, enveloping the room in a swift light.

DO IT! 

"NO!" he yelled, shutting his eyes and clenching his fists. If he went back to The Twins, _he_ would take control – just like he had done that morning… just like what had happened with Patient M. It was a peculiar experience, waking up and not realizing what was going on, only having to piece together the truth to understand…

_You're not in as much control as you think you are._

"I don't have time for this," Crane moaned, quietly retreating to the couch. "I have a court session in about 30 minutes about a mass rapist – they need me to testify with his psychological profile."

_You can still do that_.

_He_ was trying to coo him. It wouldn't work. Jonathan sat down and quickly leaned his head against the back of the sofa, not caring about the result to his hair. He shut his eyes again, trying to put up mental barriers so that _he_ couldn't operate.

_Trying to keep me out? That's impossible. I am you!_

Every barrier Dr Crane would put up, _he_ would knock down as if it were made of hay or grass. It was useless. He finally succumbed to the pressure, not bothering to put anymore up. It was a waste of energy.

"Just…just go away for this afternoon and I'll work on the Gamma solution tomorrow morning."

And if I don't? 

His cold eyes opened, flaming with fury, "No Gamma solution. Simple as that."

_I can make you work on it. I can do it myself._

Jonathan let himself chuckle, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "You don't know how." He replied, pleased at the lack of response. "If that's the only thing I have over you, so be it. But as long as you're in charge, you can't create the toxins."

_He_ hissed, annoyed at the Doctor's rebuttal. Crane was happy though – it kept _him_ silent. The solitude he could have without getting bombarded with taunts and insults and his own responds of pleads and yells. It was truly bliss.

He dragged himself off of the couch and straightened his jacket, which had rumpled when he hastily sat down. He smoothed his hair that finally got to him and adjusted his glasses again. Mumbling, he walked over to his desk where he saw the notes he had taken about The Twins. He went in the room with C-2 in it first, the docile one, and injected him with the preliminary Gamma solution.

Nothing happened. C-2 kept talking about how he always felt wet – C2 blamed Dr Crane for it. Jonathan remembered biting his lip to stop himself retorting with a nasty comment. _He_ wasn't saying anything, for the time being. And that's when it got hazy. He kind of remembered C-2 remarking that it was raining…screaming that he was going to drown.

And then he was hunched over the body of C-2, who was trying to claw at the wall, his fingers bloodied.

He pursed his lips as he tried to remember anything else, but it was a blank. The Scarecrow certainly scared all right, he remarked to himself, but how, he didn't know.

He took the opportunity to glance at his watch – he had to be at the courthouse across the street in about fifteen minutes. Sighing, he debated whether bringing his entire briefcase was necessary. Shaking his head no, he reached inside and pulled the slim case file out.

He quickly walked out of the room, trying to make up lost time. He frowned at the lack of _anything_ happening in his head. No hissing, no spitting, no talking, no laughing, no nothing. It was odd not having _him_ do anything. It was calming, too.

Dr Crane reached the main area of the second floor whilst yawning again, stifling it with the back of his left hand.

"Dr Crane?"

That voice. He frowned before turning his head behind him and seeing a young DA trying to catch up to him. Rachel Dawes, the only person who he could truly not stand. And that wasn't even _his_ influence. She seemed to think that she could match his wits and his knowledge, while all she did was hit thin air. Her arrogance was only to match his own – but at least his had a foundation.

"Miss Dawes," he said, turning his head back to the front, "To what do I owe this pleasure?" he added, his sarcasm thinly veiled.

"Your testimony in about 10 minutes. You're running a bit late," she said, pointedly. He frowned as she caught up and began walking side by side with him.

"One of the sessions with a patient ran a little bit late," he said, not exactly lying, "they became violent and I had to sedate them. And then I had to fill out a report for doing it," he added icily.

"Are you going to dub him insane and put him here?" she challenged briskly, getting straight to the point.

"Miss Dawes," he put special emphasis on her name, before he was cut off…

_Make her suffer. You don't like her. So make her suffer! _

"I do _believe_ that doctor-patient confidentiality is essential in this matter."

She put a hand on his shoulder stopping him dead in his tracks, causing his eyes to blaze. "So that's Psycho-babble for yes, you are?"

He pulled his arm away from her and did no hiding the distain in his steady gaze into her questioning ones. His eyes like stone drilled into her head, trying to make her crack.

_You hate her…you want her to suffer. Make her scream – let her fears come true._

"**_No_**." he forcefully directed in two ways, "I did not say anything of the sort." He began walking again, ignoring the rising embers of _his_ pleads. "I will say what I think at the meeting. Until then," he raised his eyebrow quickly, even though she probably wouldn't see, "I'll let your…imagination…take over."

He continued walking as he reached the stairs. He decided to take the longer route down – to clear his head. He had made a pun, which irked him in more than one way…mainly because it pertained so closely to the situation.

Walking down the steps, he took a left and walked out the main doors of the Asylum. He was greeted by the musty air of Gotham. He frowned as the noise out in the open caused him a different emotion than it usually did – it replaced _his_ voice.

He looked both ways before darting across the street to the courthouse on the other side. Opening the heavy doors with his free hand, he noticed the reflection of Dawes walking out of Arkham looking confused.

"Let her be," he mumbled, storming into the courthouse.

It wasn't long before he was on the testimony stand, gazing out at the people who had come to watch this case intently. He saw the smug face of Rachel as she sat in her position – she had made an amazing case for him to be locked up.

"Dr Crane," the voice of the judge came. Jonathan blinked from his sweep of the room and looked up expectantly at the judge. "What is your evaluation of the accused?"

He cleared his throat and pushed his frames up his nose, pausing briefly. "In my evaluation of Mr Jamie Gordon, I did not see any straight forward symptoms of mental ail."

Rachel's grin widened.

"However, as time progressed, he became unnaturally hostile, talking about himself in the third person."

_She's wrong. You're right. Lock him away._

"…He also paced the room uncharacteristically, and wouldn't admit to the crimes that he is being convicted for at this trial…"

_We can test the Gamma solution on him! We can make him scream!_

"…And after prolonged periods of time, he wouldn't answer to my voice." Crane finished, raising an eyebrow. It had all happened that way, although technically, that did not warrant him being insane.

"According to witness reports and his own sayings, he had this planned. It has been widely documented that people with a mental ailment do not plan these things in advance."

Dr Crane let himself smile and shrugged, "Although that is common, never is it sure."

_Never is it sure…but his screams are assured. If we get him…a lab rat he will be!_

Jonathan began to shake slightly at the never ceasing pressure of _him_. _He_ said that _he_ wouldn't interfere…that _he_ would go away if he wanted the Gamma solution worked on…it unravelled his nerves. But he couldn't let anyone – not the judge, the accused or worst of all, Miss Dawes, see him like this.

Swallowing hard, he looked at the judge and frowned, "A man must not be of sane mind when he thinks that he can do the same thing, however many times, even if planned, and not get caught."

_His fear should have prevented it – what does he fear? Let me taste it._

"And what is your professional opinion. Do you think this man is fit to stand trial?"

_He_ hissed and Jonathan shifted uncomfortably, the subtle shaking of the pressure coming to a head. He closed his eyes and exhaled.

"I believe, that in my professional…"

_Do it. Make him scream like his victims. Make him be a victim!_

"…Capacity as a psychologist and as…head of Arkham Asylum…"

_Let us make him suffer! He will prove the best little lab rat in existence! DO IT! _

_He_ screamed, causing Crane to shake even more. He opened his eyes, the light blue hue briefly calling for help, although no one acknowledged it. His shaking got worse as the constant screams in his cranium amplified. He wanted to scream out, but he couldn't.

"That…Mr Jamie Gordon is…a hazard to himself." He ended up saying a lot softer than he intended to. He leaned back, his face still betraying no sign of an underlying problem. _He_ had just played Devil's Advocate, and there was nothing he could have done to stop it. And now, _his_ laughing started again, unyielding and merciless. He didn't even hear the Judge's verdict to release him to the care of Arkham the next day, nor did he see Rachel's infuriated look. All that mattered was composing himself.

And silencing _him_.

He took off his glasses and rubbed one of the frames between his forefinger and thumb, frowning. He stood up as he realized other blurry figures were doing the same, and he quickly put the glasses back on as he left from the stand. Grabbing his case file, he tried to rush out of there, only to come to the snarling figure of Rachel.

"A Hazard to himself? You're letting a perfectly sane man go to the Asylum instead of _jail_, where he _belongs_?" she accused, staring at him.

Relatively composed, the voice silent, he looked at her almost placidly. "Are you the psychiatrist?" he asked coldly. "I doubt so, so I believe that I know a _little_ bit more about this than you do."

He shoved by her and walked, still shaken by the force of_ him_.

"I won't even SAY what I think of you!" she yelled from behind him.

Crane paused in his brooding over the experience and turned slowly on his heels to face her. A sly little half smirk formed on his face. "People don't always say what they're thinking. They just see to it that you don't advance in life. Now good day, Miss Dawes."

He turned away, once again preoccupied with the screaming in his head.

_You can't let her go! She has her problems, She must fear! She won't listen – she's not intimidated! Make her!_

"I won't." _He_ was advocating the wrong solution. As much as he disliked Rachel Dawes, nobody, _nobody_ deserved what wrath _he_ could dish out while they were under his experiments.

Not even him.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Wow, thanks for all the kind words. You guys rule :) I'm so pleased that you guys think that I'm being original, I'm just trying to fill some questions in my own way. I noticed in Begins that he seemed a lot colder to Rachel than anyone else in person (other than Batman, obviously) - and so I made a reason. I mean, it works, right? lol :) I have an idea for the ending which really leads in to the beginning of the movie well. I dunno how we'll get to the end, or when it'll be, but I think it'll be worth it. 

Also noting that I absolutely LOVE making up the Patients A-Z and their backstories. It's so fun & rewarding to come up with seemingly random backstories and have them work (like Patient M/Nicole stabbing her husband because he wouldn't do the dishes right away - I knda got that from a "tip" on the game called Tumblebugs which said "No man has been shot while doing the dishes" lol. I think she'll make a return in a future chapter...no promises though.)

I also want to express thanks for my friend Lauren who betaread Uncertainty for me and said that it was good. I need to get a constant betareader. Cause I didn't have anybody for this chapter. Marc and Lauren and other friends were unavailable. So blame them if it's bad! LOL

I added a line from Hannibal ("People don't always say what they're thinking. They just see to it that you don't advance in life"), I dunno why. It seemed like something he would say at the time? Sigh. I'm such a random fangirl. Geek out.

HoneyBee1: You know, I never thought of it like Gollum, but now that you say it - it kinda reminds me of it too! LOL!

Blodeuedd: Thank you again for the majorly helpful review, I was worrying that I wasn't keeping Crane really IC but it seems he is to you. :) Thanks for your help!

Jonathansgirl18: I hope you enjoy this :) it's deserving of your enjoy...ance...ness...((shifty eyes)), I hope :)

I won't write any longer. I have an affinity to get very ranty and taking up a lot of space... sigh.


	4. Reflection

**Reflection**

It was another night of long proportions, another night of filing admissions and making sure everything was in the best shape it could be – considering it was an asylum. Well, technically, it was morning…Jonathan rubbed his tired eyes with the back of his hand and yawned, leaning back in his leather chair. His light was the only one that punctured the row of darkness that was the doctor's quarters.

He groaned as he pulled his heavy head away from the comfort of the back rest to stare at the last thing he needed to do – give the okay for a transfer to another, smaller, lower security asylum just outside of Gotham. He frowned as he picked up the papers – it was Patient M – the one that _he _had scared beyond her wits, ironically enough.

He brushed his finger lightly against the text of the paper, as if by touching it, he managed a better chance of seeing it without blurred vision. No such luck. He squinted, briefly trying to read the small type, also trying to stifle a yawn at the same time.

_Let me take over…I don't tire._

"No," Crane shook his head, the yawn breaking through. _He_ was stronger than usual at the moment. "You'd only deplete my lack of energy further."

_His_ silence told Jonathan that he had hit _his_ nail on the head. Frowning, the Doctor stood up, stretching his arms. Four AM was not a good time to be filing paperwork, not with a voice begging to be let out of a mind. Running a hand through his hair, Jonathan walked over to a small end table with a black radio and CD player and flicked the CD on random. Docile tones of piano floated out, pleasing Crane's aching head as _he_ withdrew instinctively.

He flopped himself down on the sofa, closing his eyes against the harsh light. He didn't chance himself to drive; he was willing to spend yet _another_ night in his office, sleeping on his own sofa. His breathing deepened and his nerves calmed as a Chopin waltz filled his head.

_You can't drive me out anymore…not anymore…_

_He_ was harsh and commanding, the abruptness of it causing Jonathan to bolt up, his glasses cascading down his nose until they fell onto his knee, but he didn't care.

"No," he moaned, forcing his eyes shut. "No, you can't…"

_He_ chuckled softly, the echo causing eerie sensations in his head once again. Jonathan bit his lip before gently laying himself back down, grasping his glasses firmly before reaching over his head and onto the nearby table where he laid them down calmly. If _he_ couldn't be repelled…what were _his_ intentions?

"What do you want?" he bitterly groaned, small embers of rage coming to the surface, "I've all but finished the Gamma solution – we've tested it; it works perfectly. What _else_ do you want?"

_Screams._

"Of course," Crane mumbled, blinking his eyes again. "You thrive on them, you can't survive without them; I've heard your spiel before. Just let me get one night's sleep. One night," he pleaded, adjusting his position on the couch. "And then we can get started on the Delta Solution that I theorized this afternoon…"

_He_ hissed appreciatively, before falling silent. Jonathan let out a quiet sigh of relief and began to zone out to the music once again. He felt his lids close heavily, and he didn't try to will them open again. All he had to do was see his reflection in the mirror to see that he wasn't going to survive much longer on the amount of sleep he was getting. Sleep…easier to obtain when _he_ wasn't screaming at him, when _his_ demands had been met.

Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he lowered his feet to the ground, sitting up. He blinked a couple times before standing up and immediately heading for his briefcase. When he reached it, a slight smile formed as his hand curled around it and he picked it up, the weight not seeming to bother him. With a flick of the light switch, the room was plunged into darkness, much like the rest of the hall. The music still floated in its unseen eighth note runs.

Jonathan was asleep, but _he_ was awake; wide-awake.

He travelled the halls quietly, his steely gaze trapped on everything it came across, whether it be doors or the few people working the late graveyard shift. Very few people acknowledged him, each battling their own fatigue. He slipped over to the elevator, and quietly descended to the first basement floor without a single word.

The doors dinged open as he stepped out, frowning. The corridor was colder than he remembered it. But no matter – the expression switched back to neutral as he walked towards the security doors, which had a tired guard standing by them.

Frowning, the guard peered at him with a mixture of disbelief and anxiety, "Dr Crane?"

"Yes?" he answered shortly, stopping to look at the guard.

"Are you…how long have you been here?" the guard stuttered, putting a hand on the back of his baldhead. It was reflecting the dim light into his eyes, which caused him to frown as he swung his briefcase around to hold with two hands.

"Late night," he pursed his lips before forcing a smile. "Well, morning, as the case may be. I just…" he frowned, trying to think of the right words.

The transfer papers.

"I've come to make sure that Ms Guadeé is still fit for transfer," he announced triumphantly, looking at the guard who was too tired to argue.

"Of course, Dr Crane. Please, forgive me."

He nodded, and opened the doors leading into the rows of cells. The moment they clicked behind him, he dropped the smile, "You'll be next," he murmured, angrily. He looked in all the small windows of the cells before he saw the one he needed. A sadistic smile overtook his face as he turned and unlocked the door with the set of keys he had taken from his pocket.

The door creaked open, slightly as he forced himself in through the small opening. He regarded her with cold eyes as she was sitting in the corner, sleeping. It was like she had hardly moved from their previous encounter. He knelt as he set the briefcase down on the floor, opening it up to look at its contents – the Gamma solution jumped out at him, which he gladly took and popped open the needle's cap.

He slowly crept over to her, careful not to extend any noise. Her breathing was deep, her hair still matted. He bared his teeth as he roughly grabbed her arm, thus waking her, and shoving the needle into the crevice of her elbow before pressing the plunger. She howled in a mixture of pain and…

Fear.

He uncurled himself and slowly stepped back to look at her wide eyes shifting in every possible direction. He crossed his arms as he threw the needle back in the briefcase. The sudden movement caused her head to freeze at him.

"Leon!" she wailed before pressing her frame closer against the wall.

"Mmhmm," he murmured, stepping closer, glee playing into his eyes.

"You're…you're not dead. But you _are_," she stammered, closing her eyes tightly.

He knelt down beside her and forced her eyes open to look into his own. She would not deny him this. Frowning, he examined her shaking figure. "I'm not just Leon anymore!" he roared, causing her to wince.

"No…Leon," she whimpered, her eyes forced open, tears carrying her fear leaking from them, "You're scaring me…you're scaring me."

"Good," he cooed, rubbing his fingers against her face, "I live again for your fear…I survive off of your uncertainties, thrive off your screams and grow under your trauma. You can never be rid of me, Nicole. I'm much, _much_ more than just Leon right now, Nicole."

She screamed at him, her body beginning to shake even more, causing his hands to vibrate with the pressure.

"I'm the Scarecrow," he cooed roughly, still holding her eyelids open with his thumbs. He shook her head briefly, causing her to scream even harder. He stopped and smiled, digging his nails into the side of her head. "You, my little crow, have much to fear from me!"

He roughly let go of her head, standing up and brushing his hands over his jacket sleeves. He could only imagine what she was seeing, but he was drunk with the mental image it gave him. Little did he know, to her, every time he wiped a hand over his dark jacket, pieces of straw fell from him, piling in front of her.

She screamed again as he turned, a hand on his briefcase and left, opening the door slightly and closing it behind him. The guard, alerted by the woman's screams, met him halfway down the hall. The guard, panting as though he had just run a marathon stared at him quizzically, stopping to catch his breath.

"Doctor," he paused, finally noticing the lack of the Doctor's glasses. He shook his head, thinking that he had probably forgotten him in his work. "We heard screaming – was everything okay with Patient M?"

He frowned, shaking his head, "I went in and she happened to be awake. As soon as she saw me, she began screaming. As I looked at her, it got worse. She kept saying she saw a scarecrow." He shrugged, "She's not fit for transfer. I must report that. Good day."

He swiftly bypassed the stunned guard, and headed towards the elevator, satisfied for another day. Reaching it, he swiped his card and stepped in, grinning eerily. Relinquishing his control over Crane's mind, the figure slumped, dropping the briefcase to the floor of the elevator, his body slumping against the side before collapsing on the ground. The sudden movement cause Jonathan to wake up, startled by the pain settling over his head.

He attempted to make out the blurry shapes to no avail. His legs faltered as he stood up, causing him to fumble and almost fall over again. Luckily the…handrail? Was there for his hand to wrap around, preventing him from smashing the bridge of his nose against the grated floor.

The Elevator!

He cried out in surprise as he realized what had happened. Groping for the object next to his feet on the floor, which he realized had to be his briefcase; he cautiously stood as the elevator lurched to a stop. The doors dinged and he stepped out, his body shaking uncontrollably. He took no notice of the few people roaming the halls as he hurried back to his office.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he cried as soon he was back in the safe confines of privacy.

_Treating myself._

"To _what?_" he yelled at _him_, flinging his briefcase down on the floor. Luckily, it was closed, or else the contents would have spilled out to disastrous results. "To my _sanity?"_

_You have no sanity. I've replaced that._

Crane growled, adrenaline pumping through his tired veins as he paced around his darkened office. He was too angry to bother flipping the lights back on; his eyes had adjusted, even in their blurry form, to see the fuzzy outlines of things he could bash into – like his desk, his chair and the couch. _He_ was causing many problems…

"How can you do this?" he cried again, hands curling to the back of his head where the fingers intertwined. "I close my eyes for a _minute_ and you're off running Arkham!" he grumbled irritably.

_Which reminds me…Patient M is not ready for transfer – her …fears have overtaken her senses._

The words sank into his skin and made his flesh crawl, "You bastard," he exploded in a usually unfathomable display of rage, "WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?"

_He_ giggled cheerfully in his head, to which Crane frowned angrily. Exhaustion seeping in, he finally sat himself down on the sofa again, trying to calm himself down – arguing with his alter ego was not something to do when he was tired. _He_ never tired, never got hungry, never had emotion.

_No emotion? I tend to think I have more emotion than you._

Ignoring _his_ comment, Jonathan stood up shakily and walked towards the bathroom he had in his office. He pressed his hand against the wall to find the light switch. After a moment of helpless searching, he flipped it with his pinkie and groaned as the light flooded his eyes, temporarily blinding him as he forced his eyes shut.

Venturing a look, he opened his left eye a slit and directed it down to look at his watch.

4:35 AM, it blinked at him, before quietly turning to 4:36. He steadied himself against the sink's pedestal, flipping the cold water on and letting it run over his shaking hand. It soothed him, more mentally than physically. The veins, in the sudden burst of cold, sprang to the surface, making him look a lot bonier and older than he was.

Older beyond his years, _he_ had shown him that. Flipping the faucet with his dripping hand, he watched as water leaked to the porcelain and then beaded back down into the sink's basin. He flung the loose water from his hand into the sink, stopping to listen to the music's crescendo. _He_ growled.

_You can't see that screams are more artistic than this? You are truly blinded!_

"Aria da Capo," he murmured quietly letting it seep into his skull. "Bach. Goldberg Variations." Subconsciously, he walked over to the couch, guided by the splinter of light from the bathroom, and grasped his frames on the table next to it. He placed them on his face, relieving his eyes of the constant strain.

"It's a reflection," he murmured, truly swayed by the music. "_The Aria played with more emotion_ – a mirror image of what the Aria became after all 30 variations of the piece."

_Reflection is a _powerful_ thing. Fear is drawn from reflection!_

_He_ hissed, causing Jonathan to shiver, clutching his sides as he paced around the darkened room. _He_ couldn't win, not as long as he was still standing against _him_. Walking towards the light again, Crane felt the adrenaline surge was leaving him; he felt heavier.

He dried his damp hand with a small towel by the sink, and then looked up into the mirror to see his reflection staring back at him. Although tired, the blue eyes still sparkled intensely at him, catching him off guard. He closed his eyes and shook his head with a groan as he took a couple steps away from the mirror, and then collapsed against the carpet with sheer exhaustion, his limbs refusing to acknowledge any command given to them. His heavy eyelids betrayed his frantic thoughts as they closed and refused to open.

…_You can never get rid of me. I am your reflection_.

* * *

Author's Note: Well folks, the endgame is upon us (in more ways than one) - the final chapter is mostly written and I'm gonna put it up soon after this one. So this long, twisted story of mental torture will come to an end! Wait. That's not a good thing, is it? (Well...I won't get into it) Heh...well, just watch out for the final chapter coming probably tomorrow on Labour Day. I mean, I gotta celebrate going off to school with a bang, eh? 

I just realized I'm babbling. So I'll stop. And yes, Crane does get a little bit angrier than normal in this chapter (and, for reference, in the final chapter too). But I mean, wouldn't you?

Blodeuedd: You've reviewed from the beginning and I (heart) you for it. Nails on the blackboard friction is fun :D (PS thanks for reviewing Ruthless Aggression :) Sela rules!)

Skyler McAndrews: Thanks soooo much. Their battling, I think, is what drives my story.

colddarkknight1351: Again, thanks

Jonathansgirl18: Yay! You liked my word! I'm so **thrilled**. (Trust me, everyone looks at me strangely when I try to make up a new word!) Oh, and OOC stands for "out of character" while IC stands for "in character" - so if Crane was definately not the way he was in the movie, that would be OOC. :)

So yes, thank you all, I've had uberfun writing this story and the reception's been warm since my border-crossing from Star Trek fics. I suppose I'll leave all my goodbyes til tomorrow then? Heh


	5. Endgame

**Endgame**

Groggily, Dr Crane pulled himself up from the carpet, wincing as his muscles stretched from the cramped position they had just spent a great deal of time in. He pulled at his clothes; miffed at the way they had become so wrinkled. Slowly, his brain began to once again process the previous night's actions – including _his _hostile takeover and the mirror…

_I am your reflection_.

He shook his head slightly, to get his hair back to its native position. It didn't want to move, so sighing, he placed a hand through it as he headed towards the window which was lit with the midmorning light of Gotham. He lifted his eyes to the towering figure of Wayne Enterprises before turning around and heading towards his desk with the unfinished paperwork on it. He frowned as he picked up the transfer order on Patient M – he then ripped it into shreds and placed it in his trashcan, based on the conversation he had with _him_ earlier in the morning. He stifled a yawn, sitting in his chair, his muscles truly aching. He didn't even remember falling asleep.

_You're weak._

_He_ was hissing again, flaring up unexpectedly.

"Just because I need sleep?" he rolled his eyes, "I'm stronger than you – you have to wait until I'm physically and mentally drained until you try and move in."

The hissing and other ungrateful noises amplified, making Jonathan wince at the volume. Leaning his elbow on his desk, he began to massage his temple, trying to force the noise out of his head until a timid knock came from his door.

"Yes?" he called, unhappy at the interruption. He frowned immensely as he saw who was standing in his doorway, looking defiant.

Rachel Dawes.

Straightening up, he looked her dead in the eye, "Can I _help_ you, Ms Dawes?" he drawled tonelessly, blinking coldly.

"Yes, Dr Crane, I think you can." Rachel paused before stepping in, staring at him. "There were two transfers from the prison last night. Both were to Arkham. Both were thugs of Falcone's."

"Oh," Crane interrupted, putting a hand in the air to silence her, "You're not suggesting that _I_ had anything to do with this, are you?"

"No, but you know who did."

He slid his cool gaze over her and pursed his lips, trying to think of the right retort. Finally, he stood up, taking all of his effort not to roll his eyes, and grabbed his briefcase, "Yes, it was Dr Mark Masters."

"You must have authorized it!"

Frowning as he slid his way by her, giving her a fleeting glance, he shook his head, "Dr Masters has enough authorization to initiate transfers, so long as I am told before the patient arrives. Now, if you excuse me, I have urgent matters to attend to."

He quietly began to walk down the hall, knowing he hadn't seen the rest of Dawes for the day. "Oh, and Ms Dawes, when you're done – please, shut the door," he snidely commented before he was completely out of earshot.

_You're not going to take that type of defiance, are you?_

"For the moment, yes," Crane murmured as he decided to take the stairs once again. Dropping down them swiftly, two at a time, he shook his head, "There's things to be done."

_Delta solution?_

Crane scowled at _his_ reaction. "No. Mainly me getting real sleep."

Jonathan descended the rest of the steps, swinging his briefcase slightly. Putting a hand on the small claw at the end of the banister, he pivoted and directed himself towards the parking garage. He kept his gaze low, trying to distract attention from his sleepless eyes and paler-than-normal skin colouring.

_You know nothing of what should be done! Fear, pain, blood, it's all relative to who we are!_

Shaking his head slightly, Crane murmured his reply. "You're insane."

_…I am the Scarecrow, and you call me insane? You are privy to a great becoming, but you recognize nothing! _

"I am an ant in the afterbirth," Jonathan recited, fixing the point of view through clenched teeth, rolling his eyes, "It is my nature to do _one_ thing correctly – before you I rightly tremble," he almost balked at the line – trembling before _him_? Yeah right. "And let's skip the rest – I _owe_ you fear instead of awe. Right?"

_He _fell silent, but _he_ was fuming. Dr Crane winced as pain echoed around his head

He exited the Arkham gates and collected his scattered thoughts, which, thanks to _him_ were everywhere. He never felt normal anymore, never felt truly all right.

"Dr Crane?"

He looked at his watch – it had been all of, what? 45 seconds before she had come back? That must be a new record, he sarcastically mused.

"_Yes_, Ms Dawes?" he said, trying to make his tone as tolerant as possible.

"I was curious," she started, walking beside him, her hands deep in her pockets to avoid the cold wind that blew out from the street, "Are you going to keep convincing judges that Falcone's thugs are insane?"

He frowned, adjusting his glasses with his free hand, "They are insane, and I believe that I do know more about this than you do." He paused, before staring at her wildly, "and I also do believe that we've had almost this exact same conversation before, so I will terminate this here."

She shared his look, their eyes locking for the briefest of seconds before he turned away and began walking slightly faster.

She sighed, "What do you think this is?" she paused, glaring at him, "Do you think this is a game?"

"This _is_ our endgame, Ms Dawes," he spoke lightly, clicking his tongue slightly.

"Endgame?" she called after him, frowning.

"This is the end of a _long _struggle. This is where all the pieces are off the table. This is stalemate in 30 moves. You have your objectives, I have mine – and unlike _you_, I tend to want criminals off the street."

"Dr Crane," she persisted, her eyes blazing, "You don't look well - are you fit to run Arkham?"

This stopped him in his tracks, his bright blue eyes going dark as he narrowed them angrily. "I am perfectly fine, Miss _Dawes_...you have no need to concern yourself with my personal matters," he sneered, turning around to face his dangerous eyes with her fiery ones.

_Make her scream. Make her heed your advice and show her what happens when she meddles in things she ought not to have meddled in! Show me her fears._

"On the contrary, I think I do," she shot back, causing him to notice her fists clenching in anger. "If you are yourself...sick of mind, you can no longer admit Falcone's thugs to your asylum!"

Crane hissed underneath his breath, his eyes flipping to show nothing but contempt for Dawes. "I am of perfectly sound mind," he frowned, thinking of _him_, and at the thought, _he_ began to make even more brutal suggestions, "although I would like to admit you for some...mental _evaluations_ of your own," he sniffed angrily.

_The evaluation of her screams will be glorious! Let me through!_

She gaped at him, her eyes barely slits, "You'd admit me for not being corrupt?" she hissed back.

_He_ spat in return - he seemed to almost be the middle man. _Him_ and her were becoming too much for him to be able to stay remotely calm. He turned away quickly, seething with a newfound frustration from having to deal with both of them at once. He still looked calm, but rage was churning under the surface.

"The road to Hell is a path paved by good intentions," Jonathan growled uncharacteristically, his tolerance at the breaking point, "Now head for it, Miss Dawes."

With that, he hopped in his black Lexus and started it up, returning to the cool placidity that he usually exhibited. Rachel didn't persist, but only glared daggers through the tinted window of the car.

After a short car ride, in which _he_ was silent, Jonathan was once again trudging up the carpeted hall to his apartment, fumbling for his keys, catching his glasses as they slid off his face, and opening his door to the cool rush of air that hadn't been touched in at least a day.

He never bothered to turn the light on as he shuffled to the bedroom. He didn't care about anything – he was running on empty and yet _he_ was still thriving. It pained him to live like this, to be split into two different beings, to not function as he wanted to. He wanted to help people, _he_ wanted to hear them scream. He wanted to quietly work, _he_ wanted to cause mayhem.

_Mayhem spawns fear. Fear is life._

He frowned as he fell onto his bed, absolutely enamoured with its softness after spending hours on the floor. He kept picturing Rachel's final glare at him and he scowled. What right did she have, telling him that he was mentally unsound? Maybe if he could test the Delta Solution on her...

_This is our endgame…this is our end._

He ignored _him_ and paused in his thoughts, he was thinking like _him_. He didn't want to. He clutched his glasses in one hand as he stood up, thoroughly frustrated with himself.

_We're more alike than you think._

Jonathan shivered in the sudden coldness of the room, "Go to hell," he spat angrily at the voice that had plagued him for so long.

_No._

"Go. To HELL!" Crane yelled, clenching his fists.

_If I'm going, I'm dragging you with me!_

_He_ laughed again. But this time, _he_ did it through Jonathan's mouth. _His_ voice was Jonathan's voice. Crane fell to his knees with a swift movement and continued laughing, on the borderline of insanely. Only his eyes remained his own, full of surprise, anger, and in the deepest corners of the frightening blue hues, relief.

It was then that Jonathan realized that the battle had been lost. _He_ had won.

Now _he_ would be a part of him - even in Solitude.

* * *

Author's Note: And THUS the endgame is complete! (See, I told you in more ways than one! Hehe...I'm so sneaky) So that's it. Constantly fighting until the end when he finally (at least mainly) gives in. Kind of a good lead in to the movie, I thought. I know the chapter was kind of short (kind of? Ok, really short), but I didn't want to overdo it. And I really wanted to have more time between his interactions with Rachel but I really couldn't think of anything to put there, so it ended up ok, I suppose. 

Um, a small note. There's a line based from the movie Red Dragon (I swear - Hannibal & Crane are just begging for a crossover), which I edited partially _(I am the Dragon / And you call me insane. / You are privy to a great becoming, but you recognize nothing. / You are an ant in the afterbirth. / It is your nature to do one thing correctly. / Before me, you rightly tremble. / But, fear is not what you owe me. / You owe me awe.) _Now! If anyone knows if it was from a poem or something, can you e-mail me or something? I've been looking frantically all summer for any indication it is - I haven't found anything. But then again, I'm not an expert on poetry.

Skyler McAndrews: Thanks :) You rule And I hope you enjoy the final chapter

Blodeuedd: I'm happy you've had uberfun! Cause so have I! And trust me, I'm just like you (in the aspect of falling on my face & listening to the Goldberg Variations, and also in the aspect of heartage of Crane!) Dark humour was just an...added bonus in Reflection, although it's supposed to be angsty-dark-humour...does that make sense? Hmm...now I feel really odd for not explaining myself! Anyways, this is it, hope you enjoy!

Azina Zelle: Aw, thanks. I was actually going for that - kinda a hero/villian situation (although kinda a "fallen hero") but inside one man's head.

**Note: **For the past little while, I've been writing basically, a soundtrack for this. Random songs that I was listening to and /or random songs that just popped into my head would scream out the relationship between Scarecrow & Jonathan...(and the classical pieces I mention...yay for Beethoven, Chopin and Bach!) - I dunno if it's against the terms here or whatnot, but I'd be willing to put it up so people could see/hear (if they want to) what I mean - what do you guys think?

Thanks for the ride, it's been great. :) Now let's give Dr Crane a huge big angsty hug before the DVD...Ok? (hehehe. I'm such a stupid fangirl :D)

-Bethany


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